The Sweetest Sounds
by abrightredrose
Summary: My collection of ongoing Rosaline & Benvolio Modern AU Drabbles/Ficlets. NEWEST: #3 - These Violent Delights - aka the one where Rosaline helps out a wounded and hurt Benvolio. Requests/suggestions welcome. (Rosvolio / Also posted on AO3)
1. You'll Be The Death of Me

**You'll Be the Death of Me** (Rated T)  
 **aka the one where Benvolio calms down a flustered  
** **Rosaline and gets a little something in return**.

I've just been itching to write something for the ship that has basically taken over my life right now, yeah you know which two, so a drabble series here we go! It will be set entirely in the modern universe (I think the show & book did a good job at telling Rosvolio's story, and don't feel the need, yet, to play around with canon—maybe post-canon later on because they can't just end it like that)

Rated teen and up, but each story will have its own rating accordingly and warnings for anything explicit, triggering, abusive etc. will be given in advance. And lastly, I'm sorry if any of the characters seem or are OOC; it's definitely not my intention, by any means. (Also posted on AO3)

Enjoy (:

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Still Star-Crossed_ or their characters. All rights go to their respective owners.

* * *

"Did you get it?" Rosaline asks, the second she hears her husband's heavy boots coming towards the kitchen archway.

"Wife!" Benvolio greets in return with a boisterous yell. "You've been . . . busy." He quirks a brow in amusement at the scene before him—cabinets were open, cookware haphazardly strewn about, the sink almost overflowing, and in the middle of all that, stood his wife, with a deep scowl marrying the space between her brows.

It was a sight to behold—one that would no doubt grace the pages of his notebook.

She inwardly rolls her eyes, ignoring his words all together. Typical Montague. Always trying to be witty when not needed. "Did you get it?"

"Yes, _my_ beloved, just as you asked." Benvolio answers, placing the small bag of said requested goods on the side of the counter that hadn't been taken over by the onset storm of pots and pans.

"But what makes _these_ apples so special that it had to be bought all the way from the other side of town?" He plucks one out and holds it to the natural sunlight with careful curiosity, as if it weren't the reason why the sheets were ripped out from under him this morning—on his day off too, not that it mattered to his wife.

"They look like ordinary Granny Smiths." He gathers, absently tossing it into the air.

Rosaline is quick to catch the apple before he could so much as blink. "Not to _my_ aunt they won't." She brandishes it like a weapon, casting him with a stern look of disapproval, her lips thinned and eyes narrowed.

Ah, yes, the reason for all this madness. Typical Capulets. Always bringing unwanted animosity to the picture.

The Capulets decided to call in the middle of a very . . . compromising condition—on the very same counter might he add—last night to announce they would be coming by for a visit, because as Rosaline's aunt had so sweetly claimed, ' _it was time for a real family affair_.' Her voice clipped, that you could practically hear the disdain dripping as she spoke each word.

And with Livia medical volunteering overseas and her cousin Juliet backpacking through Europe, it was her duty to put the whole thing together. Needless to say, his wife had been on edge since, bouncing around their small villa from cleaning to cooking to decorating, even replacing the light bulb fixtures in the den.

"These are slightly sweeter, and juicer — and why am I only seeing three apples here Benvolio? I specifically asked you to get four so there would be an even amount of flavor in each pie."

"Well, it was very juicy and certainly hit the spot," his low chuckle quickly dissolves into a sigh when he notices her shoulders tensing in a wave. "Do you want me to get another one?"

Shaking her head, Rosaline moves over to the sink and begins to wash the apples, quite vigorously. "There's not enough time." It wasn't even noon yet. "I'll somehow make do. But you can find my grandmother's bone china set and the good silverware, while you're being helpful."

There's a hint of a smirk leaking through his voice when he notes, "Should I start working on the stone sculptures too or better yet, make it marble?"

Rosaline whips around to face him, dark spirals of hair falling in front of her eyes. She looks as breathtaking as ever, even with the mixture of fatigue and frustration swirling in their deep depths. He just wanted to savor it, drink it all in, for it was something no painting or sketch could even capture the essence of.

"This is not funny, Montague!"

Really, _she_ was the one being completely ridiculous: the fancy plates, the particular fruits — there wasn't a need for any of it. But deep down, he knew this was more so her way of coping with the stress that came with having to deal with the Capulet name.

"Capulet, calm down," he says softly, slowly stepping into her space until they're touching toe to toe. "Breathe. Look at me. You don't have to put yourself through all this trouble."

"Yes, I do! Need I remind you of your uncle's pleasant visit last summer?"

How could he forget the dinner that started off with a disgruntled match between his wife and uncle before the first course could even be consumed and ended with him struggling to hold back a very infuriated and red-faced Rosaline that left his arm feeling sore for the following week.

"And thanks to _you_ , he hasn't returned since, which is a blessing in itself."

Rosaline heaves a sigh through her nose, weighing his very true point. Without Damiano's strident bark constantly grating her husband's ears anymore, his steps were lighter—almost waltz like, his face more content.

"You know I'm right." He teases, and she lets out an involuntary shriek at the sudden invasion of his beard prickling against the tender flesh below her ear.

"Ben—"

But her plea is futile when the warm pillow of his lips suddenly takes its place, followed by his tongue and she's six feet under. He repeats, "Tell me, Capulet. Tell me I'm right," his voice deeper, huskier, vibrating the air around them.

 _Oh god_ was he right — but she would never admit it, no matter how potent he was under all that leather and dark clothing, or if he was her husband bound together till do them part.

All this fuss and exertion and to what end? For people she no longer considered family? Maybe her uncle— _No._ Not even him a little bit _._ _To hell with this,_ she thinks.

She needed a break. She needed away from all this. She needed a long, bubbly, rose-scented bath. But first — her fingers quickly find the belt loop of his slacks, pulling him close till their hips ground together, earning an appreciative groan from him.

She wanted the upper hand.

"Tell me Montague," she echoes, caressing each syllable of _their_ family name. "What do you plan on doing for the rest of the afternoon?" her dark gaze burning brands into his green ones.

Heat begins to spread through him like an unstoppable tide, crawling up his spine to the tips of his ears, making a . . . certain region down there constrict a little too much—which his dear beloved sweetly reciprocated by arching herself further into him.

"Is that so? Because, I have a few activities in mind that will keep us both occupied . . ." She pauses, her voice dropping to a mere low and conspiratorial whisper. " . . . For, dare I say, a long, long, long time."

 _Dear sweet Jesus Christ Almighty_ , this woman was literally going to be the death of him – in quite the best way possible, but still the death of him nevertheless.

"And it starts with _you . . ."_

Lips inched closer and closer. _Yes._

"Cleaning up this mess."

And just like that, with his pulse pounding, eyes lidded and breath heavy, he's completely caught off guard. "Capulet!" He yells out clearly unsatisfied to be left in such a state.

"All is fair in love and war, dear beloved." Came his wife's innocent rejoinder, already halfway up the stairs in a flurry of laughter.

He should've learnt his lesson the first time.

* * *

I know, it goes without saying, I'm super late to the Rosvolio party, now that show is done and dusted for good—boo ABC, they deserved so much better—but I will continue to write for these two babies because I'm not ready to say goodbye to them just yet—or if I'll ever be.

Knowing we'll never see them live out their happily married life together, I imagined it would be light-hearted: a mixture of love, teasing, and serious moments, which I wanted to showcase in this drabble—at least I hope I have.

Anyhow, any feedback/comments/suggestions would be really appreciated! Sorry if this one feels slightly rushed, I just really wanted to get it out there. I have the next story out-lined and hope you'll stick around for it. Thank you for reading, Nishita (:


	2. You & I

**You & I (Rated M)**  
 **aka the one where an enemies-with-benefits**  
 **arrangement, goes a lot further than planned.**

* * *

This drabble was meant to be something else entirely, but as I was writing, it kind of got away from me—and well, this is the end result. Also, I've now upped the rating, because the other drabbles I've got planned out, will include a few naughty things (like this one.)

Enjoy (: + thank you so much to everyone who read my first drabble, it really means a lot.

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Still Star-Crossed_ or their characters. All rights go to their respective owners.

* * *

It was supposed to be a straightforward and simple arrangement — one with no meanings, no feelings, or messy strings attached. They weren't friends by any stretch of the word, no matter how many times their respective cousins forced them to hang out in the same close-knit circle over the years — for he was nothing, but the same conceited, pretentious smug-faced ass who deliberately made her lose the blue ribbon at the science fair, which to a ten-year-old, was practically world-ending.

(Though what Rosaline didn't tell anyone, not even to her sister, was that it gave her aunt another opportunity to belittle and demean her — _I graciously take you in_ , _pay all this money so you can attend the same school as Juliet, and you can't study hard enough to even win one ribbon_ , she remembers her aunt uttering in that acidic tone reserved for her ears only.

She wanted to cry out that it wasn't her fault— _he_ was the one to let the rats out right before her big demonstration—but stopped herself knowing it didn't matter. Her word wouldn't change anything, she would still be trophyless and a burden. From then on, her dislike for the Montague, only grew.)

But when the idea is so brazenly proposed, at yet another Friday night group gathering, in between the battle of wits, it surprises her at how easily, without missing a beat, he agrees to the whole thing—no stipulations, judgements or remarks, just a simple quirk of his brow and a question of when.

It's stupid and cliché, she knows, that they find themselves cornered in some dark alley with a newfound sense of urgency, not even a full five minutes later. But she couldn't bring herself to care, not when his warm tongue began to nip and suckle every sensitive spot on her skin or when his agile hands travelled south, dipping below the waistband of her skirt.

In fact, it felt so . . . gratifying—bold, daring even, allowing herself to be practically groped by a Montague for all to witness. Why didn't she think of this sooner? It _certainly_ would have saved her a lot of trouble if she knew just how deft his touch could be.

"We should head somewhere a little more private." He pulls back just enough to speak, his mouth laving in tandem over the newly exposed curve of her clavicle.

Legs flexing around him, she just hums in agreement, but neither of them make any effort to move—despite the rough patches of the stone wall catching into her now unbound curls. Instead, he takes the opportunity to cup her delicate mound, feeling just how hot and inviting she was.

"Capulet," he all but groans, as if to make sure he hadn't overstepped his boundaries.

"Benvolio," she manages to whimpers in return, almost on the verge of begging.

And when he complies, calloused fingers finding home in her yielding channel with one single thrust, curling upwards against the sensitive pearl of nerves, it didn't take long for her lithe body to writhe beneath his touch, bringing her to the edge of the abyss that leaves her wanting— _needing_ more of him. _All_ of him.

And that's how it began.

It was simple — just two people doing a favor for one another that involved the most personal parts of their bodies giving release, nothing more. At least, that's what she reassured herself of—it was _her_ idea after all. Though, when their frequent meet-ups morphed right under their noses, she knew it was anything but plain simple. Not only with the lies she had to keep spinning to ward off any suspicions her sister might have, but their rounds were becoming less of an intense blur and somewhat, dare she say . . . enjoyable.

"Stop thinking so much," he murmurs silkily. "Just feel. _Trust me_."

As he spoke those words, his tongue began to dart down the fine tuft of hair that flourished _there_ —something she never let anyone do since she found it be a far more reserved intimate gesture, but when, without warning, his tongue delves inside with such ease, stretching, exploring, tasting every fiber of her being as though it weren't the first time, her mind goes blissfully blank and she quietly revels in the sensation.

"That's it, _Ros_. Just feel. I've got you." He says, voice like gravel, continuing his onslaught in short rhythmic strokes—a mixture of tongue, teeth and lips.

Grabbing blindly at his forearm for some semblance of support, pure, exquisite pleasure courses deep within her like she's falling—like she's never _felt_ before. A never-ending tidal wave building up to a glorious crest, numbing all her senses at once, until she drowns in it, eyes wide and unfocused.

Gazing down at her, still riding out the aftershock of sheer ecstasy, her full lips parted and chest heaving with every breath—it's as if he found the answer to who hung the moon and stars tonight. "Beautiful. . ." He whispers it like a reverent prayer that Rosaline wasn't sure what he said, until he repeats it once more against her lips, letting her savor it.

Which she didn't _enjoy_ at all. Nope. Not one bit.

She should've seen this new-found nature of their relations coming a mile away: like the way her mouth didn't automatically curl up into that familiar scowl at the mention of his name, how she actually _wanted_ to encounter him without having the group around, and that it suddenly really _bothered_ her to see this bottle blonde-haired constantly try to worm her way in.

No. She didn't want these sensations creeping up on her anymore, it wasn't part of her plan.

Cutting through the otherwise silent air, she knows it's him calling late at night—just as he had been doing so for the past few weeks where they just prattled endlessly about things that didn't really matter, (one time, without meaning to, they ended up talking into the early hours of the morning that she got to witness her first sunrise) but she can't bring herself to answer it—not today, not tomorrow or even the day after that—and just lets it ring.

He leaves no message.

She misses him.

It's only a few nights later at the next Friday group gathering that they're in the same room again, (not that she had been outright avoiding him like the plague around town, campus or anything of the sorts) yet it somehow feels like days on end have gone by. But she can't avoid him _here_ , not when they're clustered at their usual corner table trying to act like nothing was out of the norm.

At first glance, he seemed the same as always: unruly hair that practically begged to be tamed by her wanting fingers, beard short and scruffy in a good rugged, unkempt way, classic Montague charm oozing from him like honey on warm toast. It's the fine lines underneath his eyes, she notices, even in the dim bar lighting, that hadn't been there before.

It almost made him look . . . vulnerable.

Did something happen? Apart from the whole-giving-him-the-cold-shoulder-thing. Was it his uncle? Albeit it was a subject he never spoke of, she overheard through the grapevine that his uncle didn't exactly have the kindest of hearts—much like someone she knew all her life, and the harsh reminder just makes her shiver involuntarily.

What if something bad _really_ did happen to him?

Damn it, she shouldn't care this much. It was the principle of the matter: they weren't friends, Capulets and Montagues haven't liked each other since the beginning of existence—the real reason as to why she didn't know. It was just the way things were and had always been. But that didn't mean she was just going to leave him here like this either.

So, with drink in hand, she doesn't.

"Capulet, are sure you want to do this?" Benvolio stares at her intently, his breath coming short, lips bruised and beard glistening with her sweet essence from the previous exchange.

In the stillness of the dark shrouded room, brown pools held his, her frame flushed, fevered, with the ache of desire growing more and more desperate at the apex of her thighs.

"I know the arrangement didn't work, but we can stop now if you want to, go back to being—"

When she harshly tugs the baby hairs on the nape of his neck, and swallows down the rest of his words with the heat of her mouth, that's all the reassurance he needs to claim her in every way possible, her nails to leave angry streaks in their wake, and for their throaty moans and dizzying heights of nirvana to paint the walls, over and over.

* * *

"I slept with a Montague!" Rosaline blurts out in a haze of panic, the words tumbling off her tongue before she can stop them. "I mean . . . I have been sleeping with him—the Montague, Ben, Benvolio, that is. On a regular basis. Plural. Nothing serious, just casual."

Livia however, doesn't say anything and just tilts her head to the side, but she's neither shocked nor surprised by this revelation. Instead, the all-knowing smile that surfaces instantly, speaks more volume than words.

"You knew?" Rosaline breathes out, stunned. "W-when did you . . . how?"

"Well, the two of you weren't exactly being subtle with the come hither looks you were throwing each other the entire night of Jules' Halloween bash, dear sister." Livia teases, her eyes alight.

Right, the party she didn't even want to go to, seeing as she found the whole idea of dancing around in an uncomfortable costume ridiculous and idiotic, not to mention it would be cutting right into her self-indulgent me time. Yet, she went anyway—and not because it was a given that _he_ would be there, but so Juliet would shut her mouth about her needing to be more outgoing and fun (she could be fun . . . when the occasion called for it.) Him being there dressed up like he just wandered out of a Renaissance painting, all dark leather and sword, just so happened to be a very good bonus.

"Though I'm sure everyone else was pretty much drunk to even notice. I'm surprised you two didn't just do it right there in the middle of the dance floor. Not to mention, you also called him, what was the word now, oh yeah, quite handsome on the way back home."

Rosaline feels a hot flush of mortification creeping up her neck and cheeks. "I did not!"

Granted, the events of the night proved to be a little too much fun the morning after, but still, she would remember doing either one of those things her sister claimed—sober or not.

"Believe me sister, I was shocked at first too. But then I realized, hey, it's the twenty-first century, not the middle ages. You're a grown, liberal woman who can do what she wants . . . or whom, even if that person happens to be a Montague."

Her sister continues to dive (deeply might she add) into the whole embracing one's-self-it's-nothing-to-be-embarrassed-or-ashamed-about sex talk, and Rosaline just groans, fiercely wishing—praying even, that the floor would just swallow her whole already.

"I'm just glad the unresolved tension between you two is finally getting worked out. And as long as you're being safe—you are using protection, right? He's not one of those guys who doesn't, you know. . ."

"Of course!" Rosaline boldly confirms, before anything more could be said on the matter.

If anything, Benvolio was always well accommodated in that area—unlike some of the guys she had almost been with in the past who weren't even considerate. Though, she wasn't particularly fond of the strawberry scented ones he brought along that one time (God knows where or _who_ he got it from.) But apart from that, there was nothing else to—wait. . . If memory serves, they had met _twice_ on that strawberry surprise day, (she distinctively remembers her aunt scowling down at her that afternoon for missing three days of classes last semester, and naturally, needed some relief) except that time, something was off . . . quite literally!

 _Shit. Shit. Shit!_

 _Okay Rosaline, don't panic now_ , she tells herself. _That won't do you or anyone else good. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Count to three. Inhale . . . exhale._

"Well then, I guess the only thing left for me to say is, are you gonna see _Ben_ tonight or is he coming to see you?" Livia raises a brow in question, amusement clinging to her every word.

But all Rosaline can hear is the loud, frantic pounding of her pulse, and the echoes of her aunt's furious yells ringing in her ears over and over. It's only when the gentle face of a certain rogue Montague flashes before her, and those overwhelming, unsettling states of emotional confusion come to a head, does it all become too much.

* * *

"Capulet, are you sure you want to do this?"

And just as warm and inviting as that night had been, the same string of words falls from his lips. But without the solace of his fervent kisses or feel of his hard-contoured body against hers to drown out the confusing thoughts flooding her mind, the question hangs between them, long and heavy.

"Rosaline. . ."

At the low, almost inaudible rare use of her given name, Rosaline finally lifts her head to meet those alluring green eyes she'd been purposefully evading for the better half of the conversation. A brief flicker of hesitation passes through their depths when they rest on the soft curve of her stomach. He swallows hard, the muscle in his jaw jumps, but he doesn't dare waver his gaze.

No, she wasn't showing a great deal, yet—she could only imagine what the next months would bring (a fact she wasn't entirely looking forward too)—but carrying two certainly made it more noticeable at seven weeks going on eight, even if they were only about the size of blueberries right now.

Still, out of all the scenarios that could have played out after that night, getting herself knocked up by a Montague because she was only trying to do something nice for him, was probably the funniest (though she wasn't laughing) and cruelest one of them all.

Silence lingers. In her mind, she knew exactly what _she_ wanted to do, none of which was this, but the berry— _berries_ , she reminds herself, have the high ground in this situation she put herself in, no matter what the detailed pro-con list she spent half the night compiling said.

"I'm sure."

Or how terrified she truly was.

* * *

I know this ended so abruptly, (there might be a part two, or more drabbles set in this AU later on) but how was the smut? It's not really my forte, but this drabble called for it. Any feedback/comments/suggestions/kudos would be really appreciated! Thank you for reading, Nishita (:


	3. These Violent Delights

**SUMMARY:** These Violent Delights. . . (Rated T)  
 **aka the one where Rosaline helps out a  
** **wounded and hurt Benvolio.  
** **(Trigger warnings may apply, see note)**

Ugh, is anyone else going through major withdrawals, because I miss the show so so much . . . [sighs] well, at least there's writing and fanfiction to help cope with the pain, so without further ado, enjoy all the bittersweet Rosvolio in this one.

( **trigger warnings in this drabble:** implied physical abuse)

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Still Star-Crossed_ or their characters—if I did, there would be a lot more seasons and everything would be right with the world. Title from _Romeo & Juliet_, obviously.

* * *

SHE doesn't ask what happened or why he chose to come here—true, they hadn't exactly been on friendly terms since the whole breakup went down, (mostly, on her part) but that didn't mean the feelings she once had were gone—instead, the raw, weeping wounds that marred his pale features, paint enough of a picture and she wastes no time in helping him.

"Really, Capulet. It doesn't even hurt—" Benvolio winces, inhaling sharply when without warning, Rosaline presses something cold to the colorful bruise blossoming around his eye, slowly subsiding the pain, "—that much."

Raising a defiant brow, she fixes him with a level stare. "Could have fooled me there, Montague."

At that, he grins, despite the lingering metallic taste and still throbbing jaw. It was just so Rosaline, something he undoubtedly missed from their brief but meaningful tryst—those innocent evenings spent studying, (or in his case, trying) sharing stories on the couch and getting lost in one another's mouths for what seemed like an eternity.

"Rosaline!" The gruff, disgruntled voice of her insufferable boss cuts through the air like a bullet, breaking the revere. "I'm not paying you to make out with your boyfriend all night, those drinks aren't going to pour themselves!"

In her defense, that only happened once. . . okay, maybe twice, but it wasn't her fault he couldn't keep quiet for even two minutes. "Just get Helena or Stella to man the bar for a few, Lorenzo."

"Fine, but it's coming out of your pay—tips included."

Heaving a frustrated sigh, she really needed a new job. "Ass."

"I-I'm sorry," Benvolio says, mumbling a bit, and a small frown pinches the space between Rosaline's brows. "I didn't mean for you to get into trouble, I knew it wasn't a good idea to come here."

"There's nothing to be done about it now. . ." She trails off for a passing beat, then meeting his eyes wide and earnest, admits softly. "And I'm not sorry. I'm glad you came. Really." And she means it—truly, because that same guarded part of her heart felt warm knowing he still trusted her after everything.

"So . . . what were you doing taking the late shift anyway? I thought you hated it." It was a poor attempt to deflect the awkward silence that settled between them, but the loud snort Rosaline makes in response did just that.

"Need to pay for my morning coffee somehow."

Chuckling softly, he shakes his head. "You're a terrible liar, Capulet." But Rosaline doesn't laugh — instead she goes sullenly silent.

He narrows his eyes, and the knot in Rosaline's stomach twists, because when he reaches to cup her chin, bringing her gaze up, she knew exactly what he was doing. "You're still having those bad dreams." It wasn't a question, but a firm statement that makes the air taste stale.

She shrugs, averting from those piercing greens. "It's nothing, just a few restless nights. . ."

Though, in truth, it was a far cry from that. The nights were consumed by the all-too-real terrors of the crash claiming the lives of her beloved parents, of being locked away in that cold room by her spiteful aunt, of drowning in the darkness of it all—her lungs burning for breath and throat tight, that even sleeping with the lights on offered no refuge.

" _Rosaline_. . ." Her name falls like a sigh, but it only makes her ashamed and angry at herself for letting the dreams get the best of her—it was stupid to think avoiding sleep all together would somehow make everything better.

"Why didn't you tell me? I could've helped you through it, like before. . ."

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a night plagued by the echoing cries of her mother was calmed by the cocoon of his warm embrace and whispering, soothing voice. She didn't even have to ask, he just _knew_ and for the first time, the dreams never returned that night, or the night after that, until she'd forgotten them entirely.

Or so she thought.

"Because . . . we broke up Benvolio, and I-I couldn't just rely on you like that anymore." She explains, voice fraying around the edges. It would be a selfish of her to use him, considering _she_ was the one who ended things.

" _Yes,_ you could've. We're still friends, aren't we?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she gives a slight nod.

"Then we're here for _each other_. I know you're brave and strong, but you don't always have to be, Rosaline." His thumb rubs slow circles over the veins in her wrist—his sign of comfort, letting her know he was there, he would always be there, and that was more than enough.

* * *

I know, it's kind of a weak ending & much shorter than my other ones, but I've been working on this longer than necessary, I just wanted to be done with it.

So, I think after this drabble, I'll be going on a break from SSC—I wanna finish my other fic _Mommy, Me & Mr. Klaus_, and lately it just seems the inspiration for this series & Rosvolio in general, has just gone way down, which saddens me since I love them to pieces and had lots of future drabbles planned. I will back with a new one written, don't know when for sure, but I definitely won't leave them abandoned. So, until next time, Nishita (:


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